


Grasping

by AnonymousPumpkin



Series: Homestuck Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cuddling, M/M, Mentions of Past Torture, Mentions of past abuse, Nothing graphic but it's there, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6959101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short drabble written for a prompt. Pure pale fluff in a nondescript AU featuring my all-time favorite rarepair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasping

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 41: Grasping, because I can't come up with a title right now

Mituna is, quite possibly, the clingiest troll on all of Alternia.

It started out as the cute nuzzling shit he does, always wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck or your hair or your shoulders. Then it was that he always wanted to hold your hands, which was a far more uncomfortable endeavor than it sounded, considering he still had a tenuous at best grasp of how to work his body. He would reach for you at every opportunity, squeezing your fingers until they were dark and tingling. And then he began to channel his inner snuggleplane, throwing himself across your shoulders and draping himself across you. Like a true snuggleplane, he also got tangled up in your legs and sent you both crashing face first to the ground. You could never find it in yourself to get mad at him when this happened, because he would always curse, laugh, and kiss you, not necessarily in that order. He was always grasping, like some kind of creeping vine that occasionally shocked you by accident.

You get the feeling that his previous… “moirail” (and god knows you use that term in the _loosest fucking sense of the word_ ) wasn’t much for touching, and so you decide to give him a pass on that front. Even though it means that he’s decided that, if he can see you, that means he has to be touching you. As much as fucking possible. Even if that means running his hands up and down your sides, nuzzling your hair, and pressing his chest against your back while you’re trying to work.

His hands are buzzing with psionic energy, but it’s not quite enough to hurt yet. In fact, it’s just the opposite. It’s that low, warm buzz that makes your skin feel all hot and your insides feel all gooey and it makes you want to lean back against him and close your eyes and just sleep for the next ten sweeps. It’s harder to open your eyes every time you blink and the words in front of you begin to swim and dance and fade away. You are vaguely aware of Mituna muttering unintelligible gibberish against the back of your neck in the softest tone of voice you’ve ever heard from him. He’s also either kissing you or drooling on you. You consider stubbornly pushing through and finishing this report, but you know he’s just gonna keep this up until you break.

"Pay attentnntiononion to meeeeee,” he whines, sounding every bit like the brain-fried wiggler he spends most of his time pretending to be.

"Att-en-tion,” you correct him. Even though you know that he’s only using that whiny tone of voice because he knows it gets to you, you put the paper down and try to turn around. It’s a little difficult when he seems to be trying to fuse his body to yours, but you’re a smart fucking guy and you figure it out.

When you finally manage to face him, he pulls his face away to look at you, and your pumper squeezes. You know that look. His brow is furrowed and his tongue is hanging out of his mouth and when you reach up to push his hair out of his face, he tenses and snarls. You settle for pushing his tongue back into his mouth, and let your hand drop down to his elbow. He wiggles until he is standing in between your legs and leans down so that his face is on your shoulder. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it was when you two first got together; you’re pretty sure you’re nearing your adult molt, as lately you’ve grown significantly taller. He still has… _quite a bit_ of height on you, but not enough that he has to bend down at a nearly ninety-degree angle just to kiss you.

He sighs and holds you tighter, squeezing until you’re red in the face.

“My head hurts.” His speech is so slurred that the admission comes out almost completely unintelligible.

“Do you wanna go lay down?” You run your fingers though the hair at the nape of his neck. The buzzing is far worse here, enough that it begins to sting in your wrists and elbows.

“ _No_. Don’t put me down, stupid. I’m not a fucking animal.” His teeth cut into your neck as he bares them, and you sigh. It’s going to be one of _those_ days.

“ _Lay_ down, monster mouth. Clear your sponge-clots.” You don’t push it, though.

He’s improved vastly since you got him out of the Empress’s ( _ex_ -Empress, you still have to remind yourself; that’s going to take a bit of time to get used to) filthy fronds, but he still sometimes loses his grip on reality. He assures you that you’re a wonderful moirail, but the damage done to his thinkpan after sweeps and sweeps of fucked-up chucklevoodoo bullshit and whatever the fuck else Her Imperious Conde-gofuckherself did to him is probably, to a degree, irreversible. He has his episodes of unpredictable rage and despair when he becomes convinced he is still the Empire’s pet. Once he even called you Kurloz, and tried to bite your hand off when you reached out to touch him. (If Kurloz Makara weren’t already fucking dead, you would hunt that motherfucker down and _kill_ him for what he’s done.) You’ve learned that it’s better not to verbally push him, but physically steering him is still an option. Again, his previous “moirail” wasn’t much for touching.

So you wiggle your way off the stool, careful that you only ever move towards him and never away, and start to walk. He tries (and mostly fails) to keep up with you, and you end up pretty much carrying him to the nearest pile. You have several scattered around, because it’s not a rare thing that you end up having to calm him down, and it’s easier to just have a lot of backups rather than carry him halfway across the damn building looking for your favorite.

You don’t really need to do or say anything when he’s like this. Or maybe you do, and you just haven’t figured out what to do or say yet. Either way, he never complains when all you do is lay down, dragging him down with you. (You learned the hard way never to push him down.) He settles down with nary a grumble or whimper of protest, though you think that’s probably because he’s focusing so hard on making sure he gets down safely. He thrusts his leg between yours and wraps it around your knee, and wraps one arm around your shoulder. The other is at an odd angle under your bodies, as he hasn’t taken his hand out of yours. He grips you so tight that his claws dig into the back of your hand, and you make a mental note to trim them later.  He buries his face in your neck, and you pull something over his head so he doesn’t have to deal with the light. Your sweeps in close quarters with Sollux has left you pretty damned knowledgeable about psionics and their migraines, even if you were never so intimate with the other Captor. You’ve watched Aradia do this enough times to figure it out.

Mituna can’t seem to stay still, even when he’s trying to calm himself down. Every few minutes he’ll rearrange your bodies, and if you so much as shift a single muscle he grasps you and clings to you like some kind of undersea parasite. The buzzing on your skin grows to painful and you hear faint cracks as sparks start to dance over his body. You manage to wiggle one of your arms free so that you can reach up and touch his cheek. You get a singled fingertip for your troubles, but you continue to stroke his cheek gently, chirping softly.

“Hey,” you whisper hoarsely, and he grunts in reply. You can feel his tongue on your throat, and you hope that he’s just licking you and he hasn’t lost control of it again. (What a strange thing to have to wish for, you can’t help thinking.) “Keep that in, monster mouth”

You stroke his face and his hair and his horns and his ears, humming while he mumbles nonsense words against you. He shifts you again so that you are underneath him, but is immediately dissatisfied with that and lies beside you, one hand gripping your wrist and the other settling near your horn. He wraps his leg around your waist, and then whispers something about how much his hips hurt. You don’t reply to that, as much as you want to, and just continue to pet him. You map his still-too-bony-for-your-liking frame, and he slides his hands under your shirt and traces your scars, new and old. He whimpers for the old and snarls at the new. When he finds the whipmarks from your attempted execution, he outright growls, and it takes pretty much everything you’ve got to keep him from leaping straight off the handle into a sea of angry gibberish and psionic blasts. You gently guide his hands away from your back and onto your chest. The scars from the Games aren’t much more pleasant by comparison, but at least there is nothing personal attached to them. His hands find their way to your hips of their own accord and settle there. He spends a great deal of time arranging his head under your chin, knocking your face with his horns more than a few times, and finally manages to find a position that is comfortable for him and not agonizing for you. And under your care, constant humming and gentle petting, he quickly falls to sleep.

That slumber only tightens his hold on you is somewhat heartbreaking. You only hope he’s not sleeping deep enough to dream; you didn’t think to grab any sopor patches and the things you’ve heard him say during his daymares is enough to make you burst with pity.

In his sleep he grips you tighter, and it is less uncomfortable groping as desperate fumbling. Every shift of your body reads to his unconscious mind as an attempt on your part to escape, and his fingers dig so tightly into your hips that his claws break skin. He shoves his face against your chest until you’re sure he’s going to suffocate in your nonexistent rumble spheres. You’re not that much smaller than him anymore, but he still manages to completely consume you, grasping every bit of your body that he can. You just hum and hold him.

Eventually, you drift off as well, lulled by his even breath and comfortable warmth. Your dreams are not unpleasant. You dream you’re flying, or perhaps walking, across the canopy of a forest, and when you land, the trees reach out with thick, soft vines and you are safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Haha no this isn't from my Hunger Games AU, why would you think that


End file.
